Devastation
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: He thought he knew pain. He was wrong. No slash intended. Please read and review.


A/N: This is the 2nd half of my pair of death fics, the first one being **"Empty."** I think I like this better than that.

No slash intended. Please read and review.

**Listen to "Helena" by My Chemical Romance.**

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_Devastation_

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He doesn't think he can sit through it. All during the drive, he feels the panic rising, paralyzing his lungs. He grips the steering wheel too hard, blinks fast when his eyes cloud and sting, swallows too often. The last thing he wants to do is step into that church where the air will choke him with a subtle violence, where he will have to sit in one of the pews and force himself to behave, to box his emotions in the designer suit he has never worn until today.

He leans against the doorpost when he arrives at the church, thinking he might just vomit or pass out. Too many pews are empty. Too few people care. And across from him, at the end of that aisle, that execution walk, is a three-thousand dollar casket, hardwood and jet black. He can recognize the corpse's profile without getting any closer. Somebody decided to allow the luxury of an open casket.

Cuddy glances back and spots him, wasting no time hurrying down that aisle and taking his shoulder. She mumbles something he doesn't comprehend and starts to lead him. If he asked about the red roses, she would have told him they were part of the instructions left behind. He's trying not to have a panic attack. He's trying not to collapse because he knows if he does, he'll never stand up again.

He subconsciously realizes, somewhere in the middle of the generic sermon, that he is the only one gripping at the side of his pew, the only one visibly holding in a whimper. Even the mother is more composed.

He will not cry. He will not. He gets paid to be the angel of death. He's had three divorces. He's cut up onions for dinner every night for the last three days. He will not cry now. He won't.

Not even when he slides his shoulder under a corner of the box. Not even when he takes his last look beforehand.

And he doesn't even as he follows the hearse in his car. He goes back to strangling the steering wheel and ignoring the ominous, black clouds. He misses all the concerned looks that come his way, and nobody speaks.

He's the only one that doesn't say something in the cemetery. They don't expect him to. It's enough for him to keep breathing regularly. Regardless, he'll spend weeks feeling guilty. If anyone should give a eulogy for that man, it's him.

He doesn't linger much longer than the rest of the small crowd. Only a moment more. Just long enough to do permanent damage to his heart, to absorb the clean perfection of that particular casket that also must've been part of the aforementioned instructions. His eyes gleam, ridiculously water-logged, as they fix themselves on the abundance of scarlet roses. He almost feels the need to draw near and touch them, touch the lid, make up for all the touching they never did because of the American rules for heterosexual men. He almost feels like he should say what he hopes to_ God_ that his best friend knew – that word they both grew accustomed to not hearing.

By the time he gets back into his car, the downpour starts. He intends to leave. He intends to get the hell out of here. But he knows he has nothing to go home to, nowhere to go for relief except bottles that are only good for knocking him out. He finally stops and ruptures, safe behind the soaking windows. He leans over the steering wheel he failed to kill, gasping for air he doesn't want, knowing the cane is laying across the back seat. He buries one hand in his hair, his vision utterly gone with twice the amount of natural blurring, his brain so overloaded with the chemicals released from the agony in his chest that he can't even understand the windshield.

He doesn't know how long he stays there. Too long. Not long enough. He waits until he can't cry anymore and even once he stops, he stays still, waiting to see if the pressure will dissipate. It doesn't.

When he goes through the apartment, he'll decide to move in, and he won't worry anymore about finding the right wife and starting one more dysfunctional family. He'll use onions for dinner every night for months more, and he'll keep the piano he doesn't know how to play. He'll finish the Vicodin.


End file.
